of monsters and men
by afreshwatermermaid
Summary: Finch, Reese, and Shaw receive a new number. How far will they go to protect her? A [slight AU] Person of Interest Story. Set somewhere in the middle of S03.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: This is my first ever fanfiction. I would love your feedback! Trigger Warnings: mentions of abuse/domestic violence/suicide.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Person of Interest or any characters except my own OC, Miss Haywood.**

/ /

"Storm's comin."

The old woman who'd spoken was staring up at the cloudy sky, bony hands outstretched over the fire burning brightly in the old metal barrel. Clara watched her silently, trying to stand as close to the fire as possible. The old woman's face was gaunt and hollow and she was waif thin.

"Best be ready."

Clara shivered. She wasn't ready. Her sweatshirt was worn thin and she'd lost her hat. The sneakers she'd found in a dumpster were coming apart. At least she had these thick woolen socks they'd been giving out at the shelter. They'd had coats too, but all the security cameras had spooked her. Maybe she could go back, in a week or so, if nothing happened.

Maybe.

The teenage boy next to her suddenly started and fled. A police cruiser was pulling slowly into the lot. The old woman watched it impassively, but Clara and several others scattered.

She ran, trying not to trip over the flopping soles of her shoes. The cops didn't give chase. They didn't really care. Not unless they were looking for you specifically, and they weren't looking for Clara. Not yet. After a few blocks, Clara slowed to a fast walk, coughing hoarsely into her sleeve. Her lungs were burning. She'd been sick for a few weeks now, but she didn't dare go to a clinic. It was just a cold. It'd go away. It had to. She wiped her nose with her sleeve and then wrapped her arms tightly around herself. Somewhere to sleep. That's what she needed.

The sidewalk grew rougher, disappearing altogether in some places. She kept her head down, hood pulled as far over her face as possible. Groups of people were loitered about. They didn't pay her much attention. She was just one more homeless person in the largest city in the country. A few catcalled and made rude gestures in her direction, but she ignored them. It was still daylight, so the odds were in her favor. Eventually she found an abandoned parking garage, full of men and women and children, all dirty, all hungry, all like her. Some had makeshift tents and fires. Others huddled under blankets or oversized coats.

Clara picked a spot against a wall, wedged in between two old women. They were both sleeping, wrapped in ragged blankets. Clara sat with her back against the wall and drew her knees up to her chest. A fresh burst of coughing wracked her thin frame. She leaned her forehead against her knees, arms around her legs, and tried to stop shivering.

Gunshots woke her. The people around her were scrambling to their feet. Clara tried to follow suit, but her legs wouldn't cooperate. The dimly lit garage spun dizzily, and she slid back down to the floor. Bodies blurred together as they ran past. Clara tried to get up again, clutching desperating at the wall. Her teeth were chattering so hard, she was afraid they'd break. She managed to stand, squinting blearily, trying to see the source of the commotion.

He seemed to materialize from thin air. One minute he wasn't there, the next he was. Clara blinked, a burst of fear and adrenaline shooting through her veins. A man in a suit. A nice suit. And he was looking straight at her.

"Clara?" He said in a voice smoothly emotionless.

Clara bolted, terror giving her strength. This man in the suit had to be working for _him._ She hadn't told anyone her real name in seven years. How had he found her? She'd been so-

A hand seized her arm and spun her back around. She swung wildly at his face with her free arm, but he captured it easily. She fought him as he stood calmly, holding both her arms in front of him. She landed one good kick to his shin. He didn't react at all except for a slight flair of his nostrils.

"Please don't do that." He said.

"Let go, please, let me go, I can't, I, don't do this, please, please let me go!" The panicked words came tumbling out of her mouth. "Please don't do this! Please, just let go, let me go, let-"

She doubled over, silenced by the horrible rattling cough, gasping for air. The man in the suit pulled her back upright, his steely eyes scanning her.

"You're sick, Clara."

"Please. Don't." She gasped.

His hand pressed against her forehead, icy cold. "She's burning up, Finch."

The entire room went sideways and Clara closed her eyes. When she opened them again it took her a few seconds to realize that the man in the suit was carrying her outside, towards a sleek black car.

"No." She whimpered. "Please, no."

"I'm not going to hurt you." He glanced down at her face. "My name is John. I'm taking you somewhere safe."

Her entire body was shaking now, whether from cold or fear she couldn't tell. She couldn't think straight. She couldn't think _anything_ except for the paralyzing terror. He lowered down, placing her on a soft leather seat. She tried to scramble out of the car, but he easily pushed her back, climbing in after her. She weakly clambered across the leather seat towards the opposite door, but he caught her arm and pulled her back next to him.

"Finch, turn the heat up. Let's go. She needs a doctor."

The car jerked into motion. A flash of glasses in the rearview mirror.

"Please." She mumbled.

/ /

The girl was slumped in the seat, feverishly mumbling a string of desperate pleas. John shrugged out of his jacket and wrapped it tightly around her. She was crying now, a quiet keening sound that made his throat ache. He reacted without thinking, pulling her into his lap and against his chest, cradling her as though she were a child.

"Clara. We're not going to hurt you." He said softly into her hair. "I promise, you're safe. We're here to help you."

She didn't respond, but her body suddenly sagged, her head lolling backwards. He met Harold's eyes in the rearview mirror.

"She passed out." He said. "She's really sick, Finch."

"I've already called the doctor and asked him to meet us at the Library."

John nodded, pulling the girl tighter against him as her entire frame shook with chills. He could see the surprise in Harold's expression, but he ignored it. The girl's eyes had been glassy and feverish, but there was no mistaking the fear there. Someone was definitely out to hurt her, and he was certain she knew exactly who it was. Harold had told him that she was twenty-five, but she looked much younger. Of course, it didn't help that she was so frail and thin. A protective anger stirred in his chest, fierce and awake, taking him by surprise. He hadn't reacted like this...hell, he hadn't _felt_ …

He clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the pain in his chest, as the memory of her limp bloody form in his arms forced it's way into his mind.

No. He would not let that happen again.

/ /

Clara woke slowly. There was a soft beeping sound in the background that she recognized, but couldn't quite place. She opened her eyes and looked at the white ceiling above her. She blinked slowly, but it was still there. She raised her hand and started when several different tubes came with it. There was an IV in her arm. This was a hospital bed.

A hospital?

Panicked, she tried to sit up, but a body appeared from nowhere. Strong hands gently pushed her shoulders back down.

"Easy." That velvet voice was vaguely familiar. "You're safe."

Clara stared, eyes wide in shock, at the very attractive man leaning over her. Salt and pepper hair. Strong jaw. Calculating eyes. A suit.

The suit.

"Where is he?" She strained to sit up, to look around the room, eyes wild. The man in the suit didn't move, easily holding her down, but his brow furrowed slightly.

"Who are you talking about, Clara?" He asked.

At the sound of her name, her terrified gaze snapped back to his face. His expression was calm, but his blue eyes were watching her closely.

"That's not my name. I don't...I don't know who you're talking about." Her voice was shaking.

"Are you not Miss Clara Haywood?"

The voice came from a bespeckled man in the doorway. He had a tray in his hands with a bowl of steaming something. He limped over, carefully placing the tray on the table beside her bed before regarding her owlishly.

The man in the suit gently released her shoulders. "Don't sit up too quickly. You have pneumonia."

Clara pressed her lips tightly together and tried to shrink as far back into the bed as possible. She coughed hoarsely, her heart pounding. So this was it. They knew who she was. This was the end.

"Miss Haywood, we are not going to hurt you." The man with the glasses said earnestly. "My comrade and I help people who are in trouble."

Clara stayed frozen, her eyes flitting quickly around the room.

"I am...Harold." The man in the glasses said. "And this is Mr. Reese. John." He paused. "This is not a hospital. We didn't want to take you somewhere public without knowing more about your...situation."

Clara's eyes were immediately on Harold.

"We did have a doctor come here, however. You are on antibiotics to treat the pneumonia and an IV to treat the dehydration. You'll need a few more days of bedrest before you are fully recovered. You were very ill."

Clara glanced between them, her face still a rigid mask of fear and distrust.

"Perhaps it would help if I told you what we _do_ know." Harold said kindly. "We know your name is Clara Haywood, daughter to George and Sybil Haywood of Columbus, Ohio. We know that your mother died in a car accident seven years ago."

Harold paused, watching her closely. Clara felt her entire body shut down, her face changing from frightened to completely blank.

"What's strange is that you died in that car accident as well. At least, according to the official reports. And yet, we received information that your life may be in danger, which is indeed odd given the circumstances."

"Who told you about me?"

Harold hesitated at her flat voice. "We have our sources."

Clara closed her eyes, her face paling.

Harold blinked, glancing at her vitals. Her heartbeat and respirations were rising. "Perhaps we should let you rest-"

"Where is he?" Clara interrupted without opening her eyes.

"Where is who?" Harold asked.

Clara opened her eyes and looked at him, struggling to keep her composure. Her hands clenched the sheets so tight her knuckles were white.

"My father."

"We have not contacted your father." Harold said, brow furrowing. "But of course, we can if you would like-"

"NO." Clara burst out, so sudden and panicked that Harold jumped. She covered her mouth with shaking hands, trying to stuff her outburst back in. A cough shook her entire body.

John stepped closer to the bed, his face dark. Harold shot him a look, and John stopped.

"No one knows you are here, Miss Haywood. And we will keep it that way if it's what you prefer." Harold said gently.

Clara looked fixedly at her hands, trying to think, to make a plan, _anything_.

"I brought you some soup if you'd like it." Harold was saying. "We can talk later. For now you should rest. We will be in the next room if you should need anything."

He gave John a pointed look and turned, limping out of the room. John hesitated, then followed.

They left the door open a tiny crack. Clara waited until she heard their footsteps retreat before she sucked in a shaky gulp of air.

They weren't cops. She could tell that much. Harold looked more like an accountant than a hitman. John, however. She shivered. John was dangerous. He seemed sincere about protecting her, but she knew all too well it could be a lie. _He_ would want her to stay put, to think she was safe.

Clara sat up slowly, coughing again. The room spun a bit, but settled. Her eyes scanned the room. It was mostly bare. Just the hospital bed, the machines, an armchair, and the side table. The far wall was full of windows. They seemed to be about ten stories up, maybe downtown? She pulled the oximeter from her finger and slid her legs off the side of the bed, careful to pull the IV drip along with her. Her legs were bare. She was wearing a hospital gown. She swallowed hard and forced herself not to think about who undressed her.

The soup smelled delicious, but she ignored it. She stood up, feeling shaky and weak, and used the IV drip as a sort of walker to help her towards the window. The windows were old, but they opened. She pushed the sill upwards, wincing as it squeaked alarmingly. Harold and John must have heard that. As quickly as she could, she swung one leg out the window. The people walking on the sidewalk below looked like small toys. There was no fire escape.

She swung her other foot out, perched on the edge of the window. Her entire body was shaking. Behind her, she heard a noise, and she twisted rapidly, clinging to the side of the window frame.

"Don't!"

John stopped in his tracks. He was halfway into the room. Behind him, Harold was standing in the doorway, his eyes wide with horror.

"Clara." John said, his eyes locked on hers, his voice surprisingly soft.

"Don't come near me!" She was shivering in the cold wind, but her eyes were sharp and determined.

John raised his hands up in surrender. "Clara, please come down from the window."

"No." Clara said fiercely. "I won't go back."

"Miss Haywood, please!" Harold's voice was panicked.

Clara glanced quickly out the window, past where her bare feet dangled, to the sidewalk below. All she had to do was let go and lean. Then she would fall. Then it would be over. She didn't want to die, but she would rather die than go back to _him._

"I will never let your father touch you again." John said suddenly, his voice rough. "Clara, do you hear me? I will _never_ let him hurt you."

Clara froze, eyes locked on John's face.

"He's the one who's after you, isn't he?" John's face had hardened, anger flashing in his eyes. "He's the one you've been running from."

Harold was glancing between Clara and John. Clara's teeth were chattering, and a bout of coughing made her gasp for air, but she still didn't move.

"We do not work for your father, Miss Haywood." Harold said urgently. "We help people who are in danger. People like you."

John took one step towards her and she tensed. "Please, Clara. Let us help."

He took another step, slow and cautious, his hand outstretching towards her. Clara watched wide-eyed and desperate. Were they telling the truth? Or was this all a trap? She glanced down at the sidewalk again, and that's when John made his move. He grabbed her arm with one hand and circled her waist with the other, jerking her quickly backwards. She let out a startled yelp. The IV drip tipped over with a crash as the two of them fell to the floor. John landed on his back and rolled to his side, holding her tightly against him. Harold limped quickly past them, slamming the window shut and leaning his forehead against it, heaving a shaky sigh. Clara stared up at him numbly. Behind her, John let out a ragged breath.

"You really scared me there." He said quietly.

For some reason, that simple sentence was her undoing. She squeezed her eyes shut, tears rolling down her face. John pushed himself up to a sitting position, pulling her with him. She felt him take her arm, checking to see if the IV needle was still in place. She coughed and her lungs ached. Then something wet and cold touched her face.

Her eyes popped open to see the face of a dog, a large German Shepherd-ish dog. He was standing next to John, head tilted curiously at her. Clara reached up with her free hand, touching his nose to make sure he was real. He licked her hand happily.

"Clara, meet Bear." John said, amused.

He stood, lifting her up in his arms. Harold righted the IV drip and pushed it along as John carried her back to the bed. As soon as he'd pulled the blankets back up around her, Bear jumped up and laid down on her legs. John quirked a half smile down at the dog.

"Alright. This once." He said to the dog, eliciting a long suffering sigh from Harold.

Harold was hovering by the bed as John got her settled. Finally, he awkwardly reached out to take Clara's hand. He hesitated, his eyes full of emotion.

"Thank you, Miss Haywood." He finally said, then turned and limped out of the room.

This time, John didn't follow. He settled in the armchair, leaning back, eyes on her. "I don't think I could take that much excitement again." He said lightly, but his eyes were intense. "So, if you don't mind terribly much, I'll sit with you."

Clara flushed, unable to hold his gaze. Bear shifted to lay alongside her, resting his head on her stomach. His dark brown eyes were fixed on hers. She smiled shyly at the dog and his tail began to wag, thumping lightly on the bed. She glanced at John to see him watching their exchange with a strange expression on his face. It vanished as soon as he caught her eye.

"Let me know if you need anything, alright?" He said smoothly.

Clara nodded slightly, then hesitated. "I...I'm sorry." She finally whispered.

John looked surprised, then smiled. A real smile. It transformed his face. "You're forgiven."

Clara felt a smile creep over her face in response, catching her off guard. She burrowed back down under the blankets. Bear let out a long satisfied sigh. She was certain she wouldn't be able to sleep. Not with John sitting there watching.

/ /

John watched the two of them thoughtfully. The girl had fallen asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow. Bear had certainly made himself at home, curled up beside her. He smiled softly. The dog didn't usually take to strangers this quickly. Clara appeared to be an exception.

Yes. She was definitely an exception.

Harold normally would have taken them to a safe house, but instead he'd gone straight to the Library. And then there was his own reaction. He frowned. She wasn't a child. In fact, she wasn't much younger than Shaw.

And yet when he'd seen her perched on that windowsill, he was certain his heart had momentarily stopped.

He hadn't felt _that_ since...

He stood up abruptly, trying to prevent the memory from rising again. Bear's head shot up, looking at him questioningly. John moved to stand by the bed, ruffling the dog's fur gently. Bear laid his head back down with a huff.

The girl was still running a small fever. Her dark hair was a mess, clinging damply to her face. She was too pale and too thin. He'd seen the scars. The doctor had called them in, his face grave. They were old scars, but they still stood out sharply against her fair skin. Jagged lines. Small round burns. He knew what they were. Someone had beaten her viciously, over and over. The burns were most likely from a cigarette. But they'd been careful. No injuries anywhere visible.

His hunch had been confirmed after her reaction when Finch mentioned her father. John hadn't needed any more proof. He would've been on his way to Ohio if Finch hadn't stopped him. He wanted to make that man hurt until he begged for death.

He scrutinized Clara's face. Again, he hadn't reacted that way since...

John swallowed hard. It had been just over a year, and yet he still found himself thinking of Joss as though she were still alive. As though she would call him at any moment, probably to yell at him. He smiled slightly, his eyes glistening. He hadn't been able to protect her in the end. He wouldn't make the same mistake with this girl.

He felt her presence behind him and forced his emotions back down where they belonged. "Shaw." He said low.

The female operative joined him at the bedside, her eyes narrowing on Bear who looked at her from the corner of his eye and wagged his tail.

"Why is Bear on the bed?"

"He wanted to be there." John said simply. "And she seems to like him."

Shaw glared at him. Harold had been very insistent that Bear sleep in his own bed. It hadn't bothered John, who preferred to sleep alone. Shaw, on the other hand, had been less than pleased.

"So this is the new number?" Shaw's dark eyes were quickly and efficiently studying the girl.

"Clara." John said, a bit harder than he intended.

Shaw's eyes moved to him, one eyebrow raised. John held her gaze, forcing his expression to stay impassive.

"I'm going to bed." Shaw gave him one last look, then left as quietly as she'd come.

John rubbed his eyes and returned to the chair. He really needed to work this out. Whatever _this_ was.


	2. Chapter 2

Clara woke to find herself curled up next to Bear. The dog was snoring lightly. She turned her head, but the armchair was empty.

"Good morning."

Clara jumped, startling Bear awake. John was standing by the window, coffee in his hand.

"How are you feeling?" He added, walking over to stand beside the bed.

Clara sat up slowly, coughing into her sleeve. "Better?"

She did feel better, but she also felt awful. Weak and lightheaded and sick and….a mess. Her hands went nervously to her dark hair, trying to smooth it down. It was knotted and snarled and probably sticking out at all angles. And John was standing there in his nice suit, looking very sharp and put together and why was she even thinking about this?

She glanced up to find him watching her, an amused expression on his face, and felt her face flush.

"How much longer do I have to wear this?" She said quickly, raising her arm with the IV needle.

John glanced at the machines behind the bed. "You don't. Would you like me to remove it now?"

Clara nodded, feeling slightly squeamish. John set his coffee down and switched off the IV drip. He pulled on a pair of gloves and took her arm. He worked quickly with practiced hands, as if he'd done this many times before. He disposed of the needle and turned back to Clara, applying pressure with a cotton pad.

"Not so bad?" He asked, smiling. His blue eyes crinkled at the corners.

"Not so bad." She repeated just above a whisper.

"Would you like breakfast or perhaps a bath, Miss Haywood?" Harold said from the doorway.

Bear jumped off the bed to greet him enthusiastically.

"I can have a bath?" Clara asked slowly.

"You certainly can." Harold smiled. "I'll go start the water. There will be towels and some fresh clothes for you to wear in the bathroom."

Clara watched him limp out of sight. This whole situation was...odd. A bath? Fresh clothes? She was being treated like a guest at some lavish hotel. It felt foreign and unsettling.

"Are you alright?"

She blinked, realizing she was chewing on her lip. "Oh, um, yes."

He studied her, eyes unreadable. "Let me help you to the bathroom." He said, offering his arm.

She hesitated, then took his arm. When she stood up, the room spun again, but John steadied her. They made their way slowly down the hallway, Bear following closely. Clara looked around in awe, wondering if this was a castle. The ceiling was so high above them, held up with curved marble arches. When they reached the bathroom, her mouth dropped open in surprise. It was beautiful. Intricate tilework, a large clawfoot tub. It was like something from a movie. John pointed out her clothes and the towels, then hesitated in the doorway.

Clara stiffened instinctively. _Don't let your guard down!_

"I'll leave you to it." John said. "I'll be right outside the door."

Clara nodded, a bit uneasily, wondering if the door had a lock.

"Bear will alert us if you need help." John turned to the dog. "Bear, af! Bewaken!"

The dog immediately laid down, eyes on Clara.

"What…language was that?" Clara asked, startled.

"Dutch." John answered smoothly. "Enjoy your bath."

He exited, shutting the door behind him. Clara stared at the door for a second before tip toeing over to turn the lock as quietly as she could. Only then did she feel safe enough to undress.

She stripped out of the hospital robe and climbed carefully into the tub. The water was hot and so wonderful it made her want to cry. She sunk down until just her nose and eyes were above water, gratefully breathing in the steam. How long had it been since she'd enjoyed a bath? She showered around once a month, as quickly as possible in YMCA locker rooms and shelter bathrooms. Baths were like a long forgotten dream.

Harold had supplied a variety of soaps and shampoos. Clara started to work on her hair. She'd been tying it back or stuffing it under a hat for years now. It was long and terribly snarled. She had to wash it three times before it felt clean. She tried to work conditioner through the knots, but finally gave up in frustration. She wrapped her arms around herself, her fingers brushing the uneven scars on her back. They must have seen them. What would she say if they asked?

 _Stop it._ She told herself fiercely. _Don't go there._

She could have stayed in the tub for hours, but her stomach was growling. So she climbed out, still a bit wobbly, letting the tub drain. Bear stayed at his station, watching her vigilantly with his dark eyes. She wrapped the towel around her torso and picked up the brand new hairbrush on the sink. Then she braved her reflection in the giant set of mirrors.

Her hair was worse than a mess. It was so snarled, she appeared to have sloppy dreads. Her face was thin and pale, dark circles under her eyes. Her collarbones protruded skeletally. Swallowing hard, she turned to look at the scars on her back in the reflection. She forced herself to look, really look, before quickly pulling the towel back up with shaking hands. There was no way they hadn't been noticed.

 _Don't. Push it away._

She took the hairbrush and raked it through her tangled hair, wincing with every stroke. The brush refused to move through her hair. Frustrated, she gave it a savage yank and the handle of the hairbrush came completely off in her hand. The head of the brush went flying towards the sink and knocked the fancy glass soap dish to the floor where it shattered. Bear leapt to his feet and barked.

Clara stared at the mess, her heart pounding in horror. A sharp rap on the door made her jump.

"Clara?" John's voice called.

Clara froze. Bear was looking back at the door, ears perked up.

"Clara? Are you alright?" John's voice was louder now, a warning.

The handle rattled, and then the door burst open with splinters of wood flying in every direction.

/ /

John shoved the broken door out of his way and strode into the room, his eyes searching. When he spotted Clara standing terrified at the sink, he reacted instinctively.

"What's happened?" He asked, his eyes doing a sweep of the room. He saw the glass and immediately approached her, looking for blood or…

She flinched. She was looking at _him_ in terror.

He took a step back, softening his voice. "Clara, it's alright. It's just me, John."

"It was an accident." Her voice sounded like a scared child.

John crouched down. "Are you hurt?" He asked.

She didn't answer. The way she was standing, not meeting his eyes, it was like she expected him to hit her.

Realization clicked into place.

"Clara, I'm not angry." He said gently. "I don't care about...whatever that was." He gestured towards the glass.

She was blinking rapidly, her cheeks flushed, eyes cast down. She had the towel wrapped around her torso. The bones in her shoulders protruded sharply. He had to swallow a rush of fury towards her father. He couldn't be angry now. It would only frighten her.

"Are you hurt?" He tried again.

She shook her head.

"That's all I care about. Why don't you get dressed in your room so you don't step on any glass. I can clean this up."

She looked up at him, and he was relieved to see the terror was fading from her face. She gingerly made her way around the glass, clutching her towel against her chest. She picked up the neatly folded clothes and disappeared through the door, Bear on her heels.

John stared at the mess without seeing it, fists clenched.

"Everything alright, Mr. Reese?"

John looked over at where Harold stood in the bathroom doorway. "This thing broke." He said voice tight with anger, gesturing to the broken glass. "And she thought I was going to hit her because of it. What've you got on her father, Finch?"

"Not yet, Mr. Reese. For now, let's care for our guest." Harold said softly.

John just looked at him, his face dangerous. Harold quietly handed him a broom.

A few minutes later, John knocked on Clara's door, entering when bidden. She was sitting on her bed, Bear laying with his head in her lap. She was dressed in black yoga pants and a deep plum colored shirt. The color was beautiful on her with her dark hair and fair skin. John blinked. _What am I doing?_

"Hey." He said, moving to sit at the end of her bed.

She looked up at him, determination in her face. "Will you cut my hair?"

John blinked, taken aback.

"It's too snarled. See?" She pulled out a piece of hair to show him.

He shifted closer, moving his hand through her tangled hair, examining. His fingers brushed her neck and she shivered. He paused, suddenly wanting nothing more than to gently run his fingers down her neck to see if she would do it again. _What the hell is wrong with you?_

"I'd have to cut it pretty short. Are you sure?"

She nodded.

"I'm not exactly a skilled hair dresser, are you sure you don't want to wait-"

"No." Clara interrupted. "Just cut it."

John studied her face for a minute before getting up to open the drawer in the nightstand. It was stocked with bandages and various medical things, including a pair of scissors. Clara moved to the edge of the bed, sitting on her knees, her back to him.

He started with the parts of her hair that were snarled into ratty dreads. Once he'd cut those out, he moved on to cutting the rest of her hair to match. He'd never cut a woman's hair before, but he did a pretty damn good job in his opinion. Her hair was chin length now, shortest at the nape of her neck where most of the snarls had been. Free of the ratted mess, her hair had a slight wave to it. He stood, walking around to look at her from the front. She watched his face nervously.

She looked like, like what? A china doll? He couldn't put his finger on it, but it suited her. Her hair curled softly around her face, accentuating the fragile structure of her nose and cheekbones.

"Well apparently I am a skilled hair dresser." He said playfully.

He was rewarded by a tiny smile creeping across her face. "Yeah?"

"See for yourself." He gestured to a mirror hanging in the hallway.

Clara made her way to the mirror as John cleaned up. He watched out of the corner of his eye as she examined his handiwork. She looked surprised.

"I like it." She said, turning back to look at him, her face lit up with a smile.

It caught him off guard. That smile. He smiled back. He couldn't help it.

"Ready for breakfast?" He asked, still smiling like a fool.

She nodded, following as he led the way, Bear at her side.

Finch had begun converting the library into something resembling a home. He'd added a kitchen, and several bedrooms over the past year. Shaw moved into one and John into the other. Finch hadn't asked, but it'd been a sort of unspoken plan that they'd all followed. It was easier, having them all in one place. And it seemed to make Finch happy.

When they entered the kitchen, Harold was behind the counter, slicing up some vegetables, and Shaw was sitting at the counter, drinking coffee. Both of them looked at Clara's short hair, and then at John.

"Your hair looks very nice, Miss Haywood." Harold said, recovering first. "Would you like tea or coffee?"

"Coffee, please." Clara said, flushing a little, but looking pleased none the less.

John pulled out a stool for her and then sat beside her, putting himself between Shaw and Clara.

"Welcome, officially, to the Library. I'm making omelets." Harold said, gesturing with a spatula. "Any requests?"

Clara shook her head and took a sip of coffee. Shaw was openly staring, which irritated John more than it should.

"No mushrooms." Shaw said to Harold, then, "You must be Clara."

She leaned across John, practically in his lap, to offer her hand. "I'm Shaw." Clara shook her hand and Shaw grinned. "Nice to have another girl around here."

John cleared his throat lightly. Shaw slowly sat back up, smirking at him.

"When can I schedule my next hair appointment, John?" Shaw said slyly.

"Sorry Shaw, closed for business." He responded flatly, looking at her out of the corner of his eye.

Her grin widened, but thankfully she just tucked into her omelet.

/ /

Clara watched the interaction curiously from behind her coffee cup, trying to determine the relationship between John and Shaw. Siblings? Partners? Lovers? Shaw was very pretty, but in a dangerous sort of way. Very much like John.

"Here you are."

Harold placed a steaming plate in front of Clara. Her mouth immediately watered. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had a proper meal. She picked up her fork and forced herself to slowly take a bite. It was amazing, real eggs and vegetables and cheese. She wanted to shovel the entire thing into her mouth at once.

"Is something wrong, Miss Haywood?" Harold's voice was worried.

Clara realized her eyes had welled up. She ducked her head, embarrassed. "No. It's...it's just really good."

"Excellent." Harold said, smiling kindly.

After breakfast, Harold insisted she return to bed to rest. Shaw left with Bear to take him for a walk, so John and Clara walked back to Clara's room alone.

"Without the I.V., you'll have to take your antibiotics orally." John was saying, very businesslike. "There is a bottle of pills in the drawer of the nightstand."

Clara wasn't listening, noting his red-rimmed eyes. "Have you slept at all?"

John looked down at her, looking slightly confused. "What?"

"Have you slept?" Clara repeated patiently. "Were you awake all night?"

"I can go a long time without sleep."

Clara frowned. "You need sleep."

"I'm fine-"

"I'm not resting unless you get some sleep." Clara said stubbornly.

"Alright. You win." John said mildly, his lips twitching slightly as if he was trying not to smile.

She climbed back into her bed as John pulled the drawer open and fetched the bottle of antibiotics.

"Two tablets, twice a day." He said, handing her the bottle.

Clara carefully read the label, then shook out two tablets. After she took the pills, she gave him a knowing look. John's lips twitched again.

"I'll be just down the hall. If you need anything."


	3. Chapter 3

John forced himself to walk calmly down the hall to his room. It made him anxious, leaving her. He frowned in annoyance. He had no room for anxiety. He needed to be rational, level-headed, controlled. That was his job. That's what Finch and Shaw _and_ Clara needed from him. He shut the door to his bedroom and rubbed his temple. This was getting out of control.

It wasn't like he abstained from women, but he didn't have relationships. Zoe was the closest, but they had an understanding. A few nights, here and there. Nothing serious. Joss had been different. He'd loved Joss, but from afar. He'd never planned to do anything about it. She was safer not knowing. But he'd thought for sure he would die in that morgue, and he couldn't leave without telling her how she'd saved him. It was so chaste, really, that one kiss. Yet it felt more intimate than anything he'd done before.

Then she died in his arms because he'd failed to protect her.

He undressed meticulously. He probably did need sleep. Maybe with some rest, he'd be able to think clearly.

 **/ /**

Clara lay in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling. She'd been lying awake for what felt like hours. She missed Bear's warmth. She even missed John's protective presence.

Who were they? She was afraid to ask too many questions. They had been kind so far, but she knew how quickly that could change. Was this their job? What did they want? Harold was the brains and John and Shaw were the muscle, that much was obvious. Somehow they knew that she was in danger. But she'd been in danger for almost her entire life. What had changed?

 _His_ face flashed unbidden through her mind.

She sat up abruptly, shaking. _No. Not now. Don't think about it. Push it away. Just push it away._

But _he_ had creeped in, worming his way into her veins. She could see the glint of his teeth, hear the snarl in his voice. The thick, metallic smell of blood was everywhere. She felt him grab her chin roughly, forcing her to look. _This is your fault, Clara._ Bile rose in her throat, making her cough.

The door opened abruptly. It was Harold. He limped quickly to the bed, concern in his face.

"What is it, Miss Haywood? Are you hurt?"

Clara tried to answer, but she felt paralyzed, unable to breathe. She couldn't stop coughing and gasping for air. She was going to die. She was dying.

Someone forcefully took her shoulder, pushing a paper bag in front of her face. Her eyes met Shaw's.

"You're having a panic attack." Shaw said shortly. "Breathe into this."

Clara watched the bag crinkle as she breathed. Shaw took her hands, one by one, and helped her hold the bag on her own. Clara closed her eyes, obediently breathing and desperately trying to stop thinking.

"Is she going to be alright?" Harold asked somewhere in the background.

"She'll be fine." Shaw replied, still monotone. "She'll probably pass out."

John's voice added to the mix, low and dangerous. Shaw and Harold's voice blended into unintelligible sound.

The bed bounced, startling her eyes back open. Bear laid down on her legs, brown eyes watching her. He whined softly. Clara kept her eyes on Bear, willing herself to focus on the dog, and the knot in her chest loosened slightly. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, feeling crept back into her limbs and her gasping breaths slowed. Finally she let her hands drop to her lap, too exhausted to hold the bag up any longer. Bear gently licked her fingers.

"Clara?"

She looked up at John. He was perched on the edge of the bed, wearing a white t-shirt and gym shorts. He looked like an entirely different person without a suit. More human. Harold and Shaw had disappeared. She dropped her head again, embarrassed.

John said something in Dutch and Bear jumped off the bed to lay obediently on the floor. John shifted closer, reaching out slowly, gauging her reaction. When she didn't flinch away, he gently tipped her chin up until she met his eyes.

"Hey." He said softly.

"I…" Clara mumbled, hating herself. "I'm sorry."

He frowned. "For what?"

"You don't have to do this. I mean, you don't have to take care of me. I'm not your problem."

John looked at her, eyes intense and unreadable. "No." He finally said quietly. "You're not my problem. You're my _purpose_."

Clara bit the inside of her cheek, feeling oddly like crying. Purpose? What did that mean?

"You're not alone." He added. "Not anymore."

She stayed silent, studying him uncertainly.

"Get some rest, ok?" He stood up. "If you need me, for any reason, my door is three down on the right."

Clara nodded mutely. He smiled, then exited the room. Bear whined softly. Clara patted the bed and the dog jumped up to lay beside her.

 _You're my purpose._

"If this is a dream, don't let me wake up." She murmured to Bear.

 **/ /**

John stood silently outside Clara's door. He'd almost asked her if she wanted him to stay. He wanted to stay. He didn't want to let her out of his sight.

"If this is a dream, don't let me wake up."

He barely heard her murmured words. He stood, holding his breath, listening, but that was all she said. He realized he was just standing there, smiling stupidly at her door, and quickly turned to make his way down the hall. What was it about this girl-

The door to his bedroom was not how he left it. He sighed, resigned, and entered.

"Shaw." He greeted her calmly.

She was standing in front of the window, her back to him. "Boy are you in trouble." She said without turning around.

"What do you want, Shaw?"

"I'm your partner, Reese." Her voice was businesslike, but her posture told him she was agitated. "And I'd prefer if you didn't ditch me to go on a one-man suicide crusade... _again_."

"Shaw-" He began, but she wasn't finished.

"So if you're gonna do something stupid, don't leave me behind this time. Got it?"

She turned, fixing him with a hard stare. He smirked.

"You worried about me, Shaw?" He asked lightly.

"No, I'm tired of missing all the fun." She responded snippily before stalking out of his room, slamming the door behind her.

 **/ /**

Harold stood studying the photograph he'd taped to the board. It was approximately 17-18 years old. A tall, well built man stood in the middle, a small dark haired child on his shoulders. To his left a very pretty woman stood laughing, her head tilted up at the child. The three of them were standing in front of a modest suburban home with a "Sold" sign in front of it. They looked like the all-American family. They looked happy.

Harold narrowed his eyes. If he'd learned anything in this business, it was how deceiving looks could be.

His gaze focused in on the child. Even at a young age, Clara had delicate features. She would have been 7 or 8 years old in this photo. She was looking straight at the camera, but she wasn't smiling. She wasn't frowning either, but something in her expression made him feel uneasy. He'd found the picture in a tribute article written after the death of Sybil and Clara Haywood.

His eyes moved to the man in the middle. George Haywood had a nice smile. A winning smile. Harold had correctly guessed that he had been a hometown football star in his youth. He was built that way. Strong. In other words, physically capable of hurting a little girl very, _very_ badly. He swallowed hard, feeling sick, and tried not to picture the scars he'd seen on Clara's back. He'd had to almost physically stop John from finding the man and doing...well...terrible things that Harold couldn't and didn't want to imagine. Not that he wasn't having the same emotional response. He was inclined to let John find George Haywood. Did the man deserve to suffer? Probably. But that didn't mean he could let John go with his blessing. Especially without all the facts.

Harold limped back to the computer, scanning the article for the fifth time. The car crash had been ruled an accident after a brief investigation. Sybil Haywood had apparently been suffering from depression, so there had been speculation of suicide. But no note or evidence was found to support that theory. Sybil had picked Clara up from high school and then collided head-on with a semi. The car had flipped several times before sliding down an embankment and bursting into flames. Two bodies had been recovered. One identified as Sybil, the other as Clara. The article described George Haywood as a "grieving widower" who was "devastated." There was a photo of Mr. Haywood standing at the gravesite, his head bowed. Beside him stood a man identified as "Andrew Haywood," who he'd discovered to be George's older brother. Andrew was looking at George, possibly speaking to him, one hand on his brother's shoulder in a comforting manner.

Harold leaned back in his chair, sighing wearily. He wanted to speak with Clara, to fill in the missing pieces of this puzzle, but the girl's fragile mental state concerned him. The image of her in the window, ready to jump, haunted him still. No, they had to be extremely careful. One wrong move and _they_ might be responsible for Clara's death.


	4. Chapter 4

Clara woke in a cold sweat.

She was sitting upright in bed, her entire body tense with terror. Night had fallen, and Bear was gone.

"B-bear?" She whispered.

There was no answer. A hundred horrible scenarios began to play through her mind, fueling her sleep addled fear. Was this still the Library? How long had she been sleeping? What time was it? What day was it? It had been morning before, and now it was so dark. She was completely disoriented.

"Bear?" She tried again, pleadingly.

Silence. She crawled out of bed, feeling blindly for the door. It was wide open, sending a chill down her spine. She crept down the hall, trailing her hand along the right wall, counting the doors. One. Two. Three. _Third door on the right_. That's what he'd said, right? It was closed, but not locked. She quietly opened it and slipped inside. It was even darker in this room if that was possible. She stood by the door, straining to see.

"J-John?" She whispered, her voice shaking.

Light blinded her and she squeezed her eyes shut.

"Clara?" John's voice was sharp and urgent.

She squinted her eyes open. John was standing by the wall in just his boxers, opposite his disheveled bed. One hand was on a light switch, the other was tucked behind his back as though hiding something. His hair was mussed as if he'd just leaped out of bed, but his eyes were clear and alert.

Clara let out a shaky breath. "I...I'm sorry. I woke up and Bear...the door...Bear was gone, and I wasn't...I didn't know…"

John seemed to relax slightly. He brought a handgun from behind his back and placed it on his dresser.

"I can go back to my room." Clara nearly tripped over the words in her haste to get them out, her eyes widening at the sight of the gun. What was she _doing?_

"Clara, wait." He approached her slowly. "Are you ok?"

"I'm fine. Really, I'm sorry I...I woke you up...I didn't…"

John stopped in front of her and carefully took her cold hand. "What's wrong?"

Clara stiffened as soon as he'd touched her. He didn't let go, but his grip on her hand was light and gentle. She could easily pull away if she wanted to. Did she want to? No one had touched her gently in a long, long time. She hadn't let anyone touch her at all in years. His hand holding hers was flooding her with a mess of conflicting emotions.

"I just..." She paused, trying to keep her lips from quivering. "...wanted to make sure you were still here."

His eyes softened. "I'm still here."

"Ok." Clara said, feeling foolish.

They stood looking at each other. John didn't let go of her hand, and she didn't pull away.

"Finch probably took Bear for a walk. He does that sometimes if he can't sleep." John finally said quietly. "I'm sorry you woke up all alone. I can come sit with you, if you'd like."

"I don't want to keep you up." Clara mumbled miserably.

John ignored her. "Just one second."

He let go of Clara's hand to fish a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt out of his dresser. He glanced at her as he dressed, and she realized she was staring. She quickly looked back down at her feet, flushing.

He joined her at the door, blue eyes crinkled in amusement at her reaction. "Come on." He took her hand again, and this time she gripped his lightly in return.

Clara couldn't see a thing, but John walked through the darkness confidently. She was certain, however, that they had passed her bedroom door.

"Where are we going?" She whispered with a prickle of fear.

"To the sitting room." She could tell he was smiling by his tone. "That's what Harold calls it, anyways."

He led her through the kitchen and down another hall. They entered a large room with lots of windows. John leaned down to turn on a single lamp. In the warm, dim glow, rows and rows of bookshelves appeared with a large, comfortable looking couch facing the windows. Clara had a sudden memory of watching _Beauty & the Beast_ as a child as she gaped up at all the books.

John fetched a blanket from an ottoman and handed it to her. She made her way around the couch, still looking up at the books, and perched on the edge. John went around the other way and sat on the opposite end of the couch.

"I thought this might be nicer." He said, studying her reaction.

Clara had to fight a sudden, nervous laugh. John was the Beast in this scenario, and it fit rather well. He was dangerous and frightening, but to her he was kind and gentle.

 _…_ _.wasn't that almost an exact line from the movie?_ She thought.

John raised an eyebrow at her expression. "What's so funny?"

Clara hid her hysterical smile behind the blanket. "Nothing. This is nice."

He gave her a look like he didn't quite believe her, but didn't press it. Clara pulled the blanket around her shoulders and curled up in the corner of the couch. She laid her head down on the plush throw pillow and looked down at John. He had leaned back, hands behind his head, feet on the ottoman. His eyes were closed, and he looked comfortable enough.

She studied his profile. Even slightly disheveled in a t-shirt and sweatpants, he looked dangerous. Like a wild jungle cat. Beautiful and dangerous. She blinked, her cheeks flushing. _Beautiful?_ Well, he was. She wasn't blind. He looked like he belonged to an entirely different world. One without people like her.

What was she doing here? What did they want?

"You better just ask those questions before you explode." John said, a crooked smile creeping over his face.

Clara felt her face redden even further. How long had he been watching her stare at him?

"What do you want?" She blurted out, sitting back up.

"To keep you safe." He answered calmly.

"Why?"

"Because you're in danger."

"But how...what do you want from me?" Clara's voice rose slightly.

John opened his eyes and looked straight at her. "Nothing." He said firmly. "We don't expect anything from you in return."

Clara furrowed her brow. "That doesn't...that doesn't make any sense. Who are you?"

John huffed a quiet laugh. "One of these days, I'll have a good answer to that question."

That seemed to be all he was going to say. Clara was frowning now, her mind spinning. "So you...and Harold...and Shaw get tips that people are in danger and then you save them...for free? Like….like…. _superheroes_?"

"Superheroes? No. Vigilantes is probably closer." John mused, his eyes laughing.

Clara stared at him. She had a million more questions, but they were trapped behind the big questions she couldn't say out loud.

"You don't work for the government." She finally whispered.

"No, we don't." Something flashed through John's eyes, but it was gone before she could understand it.

"How..." Clara tried, but her voice faltered. She wanted to ask _how much do you know_ but she couldn't get the words out. Her hands started to shake.

John straightened, leaning towards her. "Clara. We don't have to talk about this right now. You're safe here. Right now, we just want you to get well."

"Then what?" Clara whispered shakily.

John suddenly moved forward, reaching towards her. Instinctively, Clara flinched, squeezing her eyes shut, waiting for the blow. Instead his fingers gently brushed a piece of hair out of her face. She opened her eyes, startled, to find him looking at her with an unreadable expression.

"You should sleep." He said quietly, his hand returning to his lap.

Clara slowly laid back down, her stomach in knots. He leaned back again, hands clasped over his stomach. Clara watched him closely, fighting off the waves of exhaustion. How could she feel both terrified and safe at the same time? She nodded off a couple times only to jerk awake in a panic, but John hadn't moved.

He said she was safe, and she wanted to believe him so badly.

 **/ /**

Clara seemed to have a hard time falling asleep. John cursed his impulsive move to brush her hair back. Her reaction had been enough to stab him through the gut. She was still afraid of him.

Yet, she _had_ come in search of him when she'd woken up afraid. He smiled gently, watching her still face out of the corner of his eye and remembering what she'd said. _I just wanted to make sure you were still here._ She'd finally fallen asleep again. Her dark eyelashes fluttered, and her mouth turned down into a frown, but she didn't wake. He thought of the monster who had taught her to flinch, and felt the rush of anger course through him again. He would find that man, with or without Finch's help. He would show him what a real monster looked like.

He focused on his breath, calming himself. Now was not the time for anger. Not yet.

He had dozed off when Clara bolted upright again. He started, immediately awake, scanning for the threat. Clara's terrified gaze was fixed somewhere over his shoulder, but there was nothing there. It took him a few seconds to realize she was still asleep.

"Clara." He said gently.

When she didn't respond, he cautiously moved closer. "Clara, it's ok. You're safe."

Still no response. He carefully touched her arm, and she cringed, letting out a small sound of distress.

"Clara, it's John." He said, his hand hovering next to her arm, hating how helpless he felt.

Clara finally turned towards him, blinking slowly. She mumbled something he couldn't make out. He tried touching her arm again, and this time she didn't flinch away.

"It's ok. You're safe." He repeated, gently rubbing her arm. "It's just a dream."

She closed her eyes, swaying slightly, then surprised him by leaning forward into his shoulder. He froze, torn between the desire to hold her and the fear that she would wake up. Her hair smelled good. It reminded him of earlier when he'd run his hands through her tangled hair and made her shiver. He swallowed. No. He had to earn her trust if he was going to keep her safe. If she woke up like this, she might think he instigated it, took advantage of her while she slept. Slowly, as if he were defusing a bomb, he shifted over, easing her head down onto a pillow beside him. She mumbled again and suddenly curled up tightly, but she didn't wake. He let out a relieved breath and tucked both his hands safely behind his head.

He had faced many dangerous and complicated situations in his life. He'd been imprisoned and interrogated by the FBI in their search for "the man in the suit" for god's sake. Yet nothing had prepared him for this. Maybe it was him. Maybe if he could just see her as an asset, as just another person of interest, he'd stop feeling so goddamned uncertain. He looked down at her again and studied her sleeping profile.

No. The only thing he was certain of right now was that Shaw was right. He was in trouble.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: Thank you for the feedback** **Jojo1112 and madaboutdanny! Sorry this chapter is a bit short, but I'm really excited to start writing Detective Fusco! :)**

* * *

Harold sipped his coffee and made a face. He preferred tea, but he hadn't slept and needed something a bit stronger this morning. Bear was snoring next to him in his doggy bed. Harold raised an eyebrow at the dog. At least one of them was getting some sleep.

He read the email from Detective Fusco once more, then forced himself to study the attached pictures. His stomach turned. They were gruesome. This woman hadn't simply been murdered. She'd been tortured.

Her face was bloody and battered, but he was almost positive he knew who the woman was. John had photographed her speaking with Clara the same day they rescued her. She was older, in her mid 60's, he guessed. She was homeless, no ties to Clara or her family that he could find besides that one brief conversation. He frowned in frustration. He didn't believe in coincidences. This had to be connected to Clara, but how? Was it something the woman had said? Or had Clara told _her_ something? It seemed obvious that Clara was the intended victim and not the perpetrator, but they had been wrong before.

He sighed and stood up. He hated to disturb them, but he needed John's opinion.

He limped quietly into the sitting room. John was asleep, sitting on the end of the couch with his feet stretched out on the ottoman, head rolled to the side. Clara was curled up next to him, her head resting on John's leg. He'd found them that way when he'd returned just before dawn. He smiled slightly to himself. The lion and the lamb.

Harold had quickly learned to stand a safe distance away when waking Mr. Reese. The man could go from asleep to deadly in the blink of an eye. He gently poked John's shoulder with his cane, and sure enough, John's hand shot out, grabbing the cane before Harold could even register what was happening. As John focused, Harold saw the surprise on his face when he noticed Clara curled up next to him. Something almost tender crossed the operative's face. It was not an emotion that Harold was accustomed to seeing on John. He tried to keep his face neutral as he worried for the hundredth time about John's attachment to this girl.

John somehow managed to quickly extricate himself from Clara without waking her. Harold waited until they were back in his office before speaking. He filled John in on the details of the homeless woman's disturbing death. John took it all in without emotion, immediately going to work.

"This wasn't a professional job." John said finally, after studying the pictures. "It's too sloppy."

"It is the same woman, correct?" Harold pulled up the photograph that John had taken, zooming in on the homeless woman's face as he compared the two photos.

John nodded, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

"I cannot find any connection beside this photo." Harold frowned.

"None?" John raised his eyebrows.

"None." Harold repeated. "She appears to be-"

A gasp interrupted him. Both John and Harold spun to see Clara standing in the doorway, her horrified eyes fixed on the gruesome photographs covering the computer screens. Harold scrambled to minimize everything as John strode towards Clara.

"Clara-" John was trying to block her view, but she darted around him.

"Was that….was that…." Clara was stuttering, looking at Harold, her face ashen.

"Miss Haywood!" Harold said anxiously.

"Clara, don't." John said at the same time.

Bear was standing next to her, gazing adoringly up at the girl. Clara didn't seem to notice him. She was looking between the now blank computer screens and Harold.

"I just saw her…" She whispered, sounding dazed.

"Yes. We were-" Harold tried to say.

"Who did...did...?" Clara interrupted, but her voice faltered.

Harold glanced at John whose face had hardened. "We don't know." Harold said carefully, desperately wishing he had thought to close the door. "Did you know her? Did she say anything to you?"

Clara shook her head. "No. She was just _there._ She was just….just talking about the weather."

Harold pulled up the photo John had taken. The old woman was in profile looking up at the sky. Clara was facing the camera, looking at the woman.

Clara wrapped her arms around herself, staring at the photo. "You took this?" She asked, her voice just above a whisper.

"Yes." Harold said honestly. "We were gathering information."

"She's dead." Clara said in the same small voice.

"Yes." Harold answered, even though it wasn't really a question. He had wanted more time to prepare for this conversation, but it appeared his time had run out. He took a breath and dove in. "Miss Haywood, do you know who is trying to hurt you? Can you tell us-"

Clara bolted out the door. John lurched forward as if to catch her, but then stopped, looking at Harold for instruction. Harold blinked.

"Finch?" John said, his voice tight with anger and worry.

"I suppose...you should probably make sure she's alright." Harold stammered.

John gave him one last hard look, and then strode out of the office. Harold slumped in his chair.

"Yes, Mr. Reese, I do realize that could've gone better." He muttered.

 **/ /**

Clara ran, trying to ignore Bear who was happily galloping beside her. Her heart was in her throat. She passed her bedroom door and wrenched open the door marked "Stairs" in faded letters. She slipped through, shutting the door in Bear's face as he tried to follow. He barked, but she didn't hesitate. She'd made it down several flights before she heard the door above her open.

"Clara!" John's voice echoed through the stairwell. "Clara, wait!"

Clara didn't stop, and John's footsteps sounded in pursuit. Her lungs burned and she was gasping for breath. She rounded a landing and came to a skidding stop. Shaw was standing at the bottom of the next flight of stairs, blocking her exit. Clara turned and tried to run back up the stairs, but John was already there. She backed into the corner, breathing hard, her eyes darting between the two.

"Clara." John said her name softly, slowly coming down the stairs towards her.

Clara clenched her chattering teeth, trying not to panic. She was trapped.

"It's alright." John was saying, his blue eyes intensely focused on her. He stepped off the last stair, and took a step towards her.

Clara braced herself, and John stopped.

"I'm not going to hurt you." He said quietly.

Clara just stared at him.

"Will you come back upstairs?"

Clara closed her eyes, desperately trying to make a plan. Shaw said something too low for her to make out. John didn't answer. She heard Shaw approach and forced herself not to flinch.

"Next time you decide to run away, you should probably put some shoes on."

Clara opened her eyes. Shaw was standing in front of her, completely straight faced.

"You like pancakes?" Shaw asked.

Behind Shaw, John closed his eyes. Clara studied her, slightly speechless, trying to decide if she was serious.

Shaw didn't wait for a reply. "Course you do. Who doesn't like pancakes? Come on, I'm starving."

Shaw casually hooked her arm through Clara's as though they were best friends before Clara could even move. Clara tensed, but was too dumbfounded to offer much resistance. Shaw steered her around John and up the stairs, continuing a steady stream of conversation that Clara barely followed. Shaw was surprisingly strong, hauling her up the stairs as Clara's shaky legs tried to keep up. Her instincts were still screaming at her to run, and she wasn't exactly sure why she didn't try to fight. Of course she knew she'd never be able to win in a fight against Shaw, but it was more than that. Shaw and John were terrifying, but in a vastly different way from anything she'd experienced before.

No. That wasn't true. They reminded her of her mother. That was it. Fiercely protective. A hollow ache pierced her chest.

"We're coming back up, Finch." John said dryly behind them. "And it sounds like we're expecting pancakes."


	6. Chapter 6

**Thank you lp257 and Kallie49 and im-currently-daydreaming for your input! You guys are the best. :)**

/ /

Harold served them pancakes in the formal dining room for several reasons. First, it was much easier to inconspicuously guard the exit to prevent any more escape attempts. Second, Detective Fusco was on his way and there simply was not enough space at the kitchen counter for all of them. Third, the re-upholstered chairs were finally finished and he was quite happy with the result.

Clara had not said a word since Shaw had brought her back upstairs. She was seated at the far end of the table, between John and Shaw. Shaw was enthusiastically enjoying the pancakes. As always, John ate with the same emotion Harold expected from someone eating prison rations. Clara was staring at her pancake without touching it, brow slightly furrowed. Harold felt a stab of guilt, and tried to rationalize it away. This conversation was necessary. Who knew how many more lives were hanging in the balance?

Detective Fusco came huffing through the door, red faced. Harold eyed him, slightly amused. He had told the Detective that his presence was needed as soon as possible and that it was of the "utmost importance." Apparently, he'd listened.

Fusco took in the spread of breakfast food as he caught his breath. "Please tell me I didn't rush over here for pancakes."

John smirked. "It's ok, Fusco, you don't have to eat them."

"Yeah, more for me." Shaw added, spearing another pancake with her fork.

Fusco scowled at them as he sat. "Just pass the damn pancakes, alright? Now what was so important?"

"Detective Fusco, this is Clara." Harold gestured towards their guest, who had shrunk back in her seat. "Clara is in some trouble that may pertain to the case you are working on."

Fusco seemed to notice the girl for the first time. His eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "The Jane Doe murder?"

"Unfortunately, yes." Harold answered. "But please, let's finish eating before we get into the details."

Fusco shrugged and helped himself to the pancakes. Harold pretended not to notice that John was stealthily feeding Bear small pieces from his plate. Mostly because it was distracting Clara. Fusco was putting peanut butter on his pancakes which was apparently something Shaw _strongly_ disapproved of. Harold let the two of them bicker. He knew it was mostly playful banter, even if it didn't sound like it.

Finally, Harold cleared his throat and looked at Clara. "Miss Haywood, I know this is very difficult, but I want to reiterate that you _are_ safe here. You can trust the people in this room, as hard as that may seem." He shot a sidelong glance at Fusco who was wiping syrup off his tie. "I wish we didn't have to ask you questions, but it is imperative that we understand the situation."

Clara looked up at him, meeting his gaze for perhaps the first time since they'd met. Harold blinked. Maybe this wouldn't be so hard?

"Miss Haywood, do you know who would want to hurt you?"

"I can't tell you." Clara said. Her voice was quiet, but steady.

Harold blinked again, his hopes rapidly falling. "Is it your father?"

"I can't tell you."

Harold met Fusco's gaze, his eyebrows drawing together.

"Ok, let's try this. Do you know who this Jane Doe is? It looks like you knew her." Fusco chimed in, sliding the photo of the homeless woman towards Clara. It was the one that John had taken of the two of them.

Clara chewed on her lip and didn't answer.

"Look, we need to know if more lives are in danger." Fusco said bluntly. "Can you tell us anything at all?"

Harold winced a little at Fusco's tone. He missed Detective Carter. She was good at this sort of thing. She would have known what to say and how to say it.

"I didn't know her."

"Ok, that's a good start." Fusco said encouragingly. "What were you talking about in this picture?"

"She was talking about the weather."

Fusco furrowed his brow. "The weather? Did you say anything to her?"

"No."

"Do you know who killed her?"

Clara hesitated for the briefest second. "No."

Fusco leaned forward, studying Clara intently. "Do you know _why_ she was killed?"

"I can't tell you."

"Clara, we can protect you." Harold cut in. "But in order to do that, we need to know who we are protecting you from."

"I can't tell you."

"Why?" He pushed. "Why can't you tell us?"

For a moment, Harold thought she wasn't going to answer. Then she looked directly at him, her face carefully expressionless.

"Because you'll die."

/ /

Clara took another bite of her long-cold pancake. The Detective, Harold, John, and Shaw were speaking together in low frustrated tones. They'd tried arguing, convincing her that they were more than capable, but she'd stayed silent. Finally they'd clustered at the end of the table to "discuss." At first, she had watched them warily out of the corner of her eye, but no one moved to threaten or force more information from her. Bear was sitting beside her, his head on the arm of her chair. She met the dog's gaze, and his tail immediately thumped happily on the floor.

People lied, but animals did not.

"I stayed for the dog too."

Clara jumped, dropping her fork with a clatter. Shaw had silently appeared at her side. She crouched down, tousling the dog's fur affectionately.

"And now they can't kick me out cause he likes me." Shaw scrutinized Clara's face. "Guess we can't kick you out either."

"Miss Shaw, we do not _kick_ people out." Harold's exasperated voice came from the end of the table.

"You kicked me out just last night!" Fusco said loudly, scowling.

"He said 'people,' Fusco, not 'detectives.'" John said, his blue eyes glinting in amusement.

Fusco blustered, but he didn't seem to really mean it. Shaw was grinning widely. Harold shook his head, and John smirked. Clara watched them all in a sort of fascinated daze.

"Detective, I believe you have a train to catch?" Harold handed him an unmarked envelope.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Fusco grumbled, collecting his jacket.

"Miss Haywood, I hope you don't mind keeping me company here today. Mr. Reese and Miss Shaw have some...errands they need to run."

Shaw snorted, and Harold gave her a stern glance.

"We're on it." John said. "See you later, Harold." He looked at Clara and smiled slightly. "Take care of Clara, Bear."

"We're not bringing the dog?" Shaw pouted, following him out the door.

The silence they left behind felt deafening. Clara cautiously met Harold's gaze. He was collecting the dirty plates, but smiled when he caught her eye.

"I'll be in my office most of the day." He said. "But please, let me know if you need anything." He started for the door, then stopped, looking awkward. "Mr. Reese and Miss Shaw will be locking the doors behind them. I'm sorry for the inconvenience. It's just that I am in no condition to chase anyone down the stairs."

Clara tried to keep her face neutral, anxiety crawling up her spine. The doors were going to be locked?

"You are free to go anywhere on this floor." Harold added quickly, looking apologetic. "We just want to keep you safe."

He waited, but Clara couldn't think of anything to say, so he just smiled again and left.

 _Ok. This is ok. I'll just, just…_

She got up, antsy with unease, peering out the door. Harold was just entering his office. She waited until she heard him sit before moving quietly down the hallway in the opposite direction with Bear loping along next to her. She passed the Sitting Room, where she had slept on the couch. There was only one other door. She pushed it open, and found herself looking up at a staircase. It wasn't like the modern concrete stairs she'd run down earlier. These stairs were wrought iron and spiraled up into darkness. She felt for a lightswitch, her fingers finally finding a small button. She pushed it in and a set of old lights dimly lit the space. The walls were actually more bookshelves. She squinted curiously at the titles. It looked like mostly old encyclopedias under more than a few cobwebs. Apparently this part of the Library was unused.

Clara let the door shut behind her and started up the stairs. Bear hesitated at the base of the stairs before lunging awkwardly up to follow her. The metal squeaked and groaned, but it seemed solid enough. Clara looked at the books as she climbed. It seemed like every encyclopedia ever printed was in this stairway. In multiple languages.

The stairs led to what looked like a hole in the ceiling. Clara carefully peeked through it. It was an office. An old office room that hadn't been used in decades. It was practically empty, save for a small, bare desk sat in the middle of the room. Clara stepped into the room, sneezing as her feet disturbed the thick layer of dust on the floor, and made her way to the only window. There were empty built-in shelves running along the walls that continued under the window to create a seat. She pulled her shirt over her nose and brushed off the dust as best she could. Bear sneezed and sneezed again.

"Bless you." She said to the dog, grinning.

She climbed into the window seat and gazed out at the city below. It felt like she was in a castle tower. Bear jumped up to squeeze onto the seat with her, half in her lap. Clara let out a startled laugh, and wrapped her arms around him. He seemed content to just sit. She rested her cheek against his warm fur and watched the dust floating in the sunlight. It was nice up here. Quiet. Calm. It felt safe.

If only this moment could last forever. If only she could just stay here like this. She wondered what sort of "errands" John and Shaw were running. The bloody photographs flashed through her mind, and she had to forcefully will her mind to go blank.

 _Don't think. Don't feel. Just breathe._

/ /

"I don't see why _you_ get to go to Ohio." Shaw scowled.

"It's cause I know how to use my words and not just my fists to get information." Fusco said smugly.

John stayed silent, following the other two down the stairs. He was irritated with Finch's decision to send Fusco to investigate Clara's father. George Haywood didn't deserve the decency of words. He deserved to hurt.

"Words are overrated." Shaw snapped. "But for the record, I'd skip fists and go straight to bullets."

"See?" Fusco glared at her. "This is exactly why Glasses is sending me."

"Yeah, we get it, Fusco. You're a real charmer." John growled.

He pushed his way past the Detective, exiting into the cold, windy street. A storm was coming. The first snow of the season. It was fitting weather to track down a murderer. Someone in this city knew something, and he was going to find them. He turned his collar up and glanced at Shaw, his face hard and determined.

"You ready to use your fists to get some information?" He asked.

She grinned. "Thought you'd never ask."

"Hey, Mayhem Twins, just try to stay out of jail this time!" Fusco yelled crossly after them.


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: Ahhh, sorry I made you wait so long! As always, your reviews mean the world to me! 3**

* * *

Lionel Fusco should've known he wouldn't be able to enjoy his day off. He'd been planning on relaxing and hanging out with his kid for a change. Now he was standing outside the Columbus, Ohio airport in a miserable drizzle, attempting to hail a taxi.

George Haywood's house was only about 15 minutes from the airport. He lived in a comfortable little Eastern Columbus suburb, right next to a park. Fusco spent the drive reviewing his notes. His cover was investigating a string of stolen identities, one of which was going to be the deceased Sybil Haywood. It wasn't great, but it was the best he could do on such short notice. He scowled. Of course his job _would_ require paperwork while Mr. Tall, Dark, and Deranged got to wreak havoc with Miss Hulk Smash.

He sighed, flipping through his notes. He knew Finch was right to send him. Of course he was. Glasses was always right, and _dammit_ that was annoying.

"Um, sir?"

Fusco glanced up. The cabbie had suddenly slowed, and it didn't take him long to figure out why. The entire street in front of them was blocked by cop cars lit up with flashing lights. Neighbors stood in their front lawns, seemingly oblivious to the rain, craning to see what was happening. EMTs were rushing into a house with a stretcher.

Fusco took it all in with a sinking sensation in his gut that had nothing to do with too many pancakes.

"Lemme guess." He muttered darkly. "That's 1589 Blackoak Drive."

/ /

"Yes, Harold?"

"Mr. Reese, we have a problem." Harold said wearily.

"Can it wait 30 seconds?" John's strained voice crackled through his earpiece.

"Why?" Harold asked suspiciously, immediately alert. "What's wrong?"

"A little tired, that's all. You know, it would really be nice if the elevator was working again."

Harold frowned, then gasped at the clock. It was 4:47 pm. He'd been so engrossed in this research and then distracted by Detective Fusco's call…

He stood up abruptly. He hadn't seen Clara since breakfast. "Oh dear."

"I'm touched, Harold, but I'll be fine. Just not used to carrying Shaw up eight flights of stairs."

Harold's panicked gaze turned to the door of the stairwell. "Oh no."

He heard John removing the deadbolt and limped over as quickly as he could. John emerged from the stairwell, carrying Shaw over his shoulder like a firefighter. Harold couldn't see her face, but the way her body hung limply told him she was unconscious.

"What happened?" Harold asked sharply, already pulling out his phone to dial the doctor.

"Relax, Finch. She'll be fine. Don't disturb the good doctor." John sounded amused.

Harold met his gaze. John looked a little banged up, but he was _grinning._ Harold furrowed his brow in confusion.

"What on earth…" He began.

"Shaw got shot." John said calmly.

Harold opened his mouth to angrily demand John's definition of "fine," but John interrupted him.

"With a tranq gun."

Harold blinked, panic fading to annoyance. "And this is amusing because?"

John started towards Shaw's bedroom, giving him a look like he didn't understand the question. "She got shot with a tranq gun." He repeated patiently. "She was out before the fight even started."

Harold stood in the doorway and watched him lay Shaw on her bed. He shook his head at the almost gleeful smirk on John's face. He was relieved neither of them were hurt, though their inane competition to be alpha might be the death of _him._

"So what's the problem?" John straightened, all business again.

"Oh!" Harold swung around to look frantically down the empty hall.

"Harold." John's voice had that dangerous edge to it. "Where's Clara?"

/ /

"Clara."

The voice was low and smooth, quietly slipping into her dream.

"Clara."

A hand on her forehead. Not hard. Gentle. Warm. She turned her face towards it, unafraid, and felt fingers brush lightly down her cheek.

"Clara, wake up."

Clara reluctantly opened her eyes. John's face was hovering above her. He smiled.

"Hey." He said softly.

Her eyelids felt so heavy. She blinked slowly, but each time he was still there. She felt strange, different.

Calm.

That was it.

She felt _calm._

"Didyoudrugme?" She mumbled.

John raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Clara frowned, the haze of sleep slipping. "I just...feel..." She narrowed her eyes on his face, adrenaline snapping her awake. "What happened?"

There was a bruise beginning to bloom on his jaw, a cut on his left cheekbone, and a long scrape above his eyebrow.

"Had a disagreement with some guys." He said dismissively. "Are you ok?"

"What?" Clara asked, distracted, trying to scan for further injuries. A _disagreement?_

"You just asked if I drugged you."

She met his gaze again, startled. His eyes were sharp, worried. She tried to focus on what he'd just said, but his battered face was too alarming. "I...what? I don't….a disagreement? With who?"

"I asked first." He said lightly.

Clara sat up stiffly. Her bones ached from the hard wooden bench. How long had she been asleep? "I'm fine. I was just….it was just a dream."

John frowned. He remained crouched, looking up at her. That cut on his cheek looked fresh. She leaned forward, carefully touching his cheek as she inspected it. It wasn't bleeding, but it had been recently. Dried blood was crusted around the wound. It needed to be cleaned. She couldn't tell how deep it was, but it might even need stitches. She shifted her gaze to the bruise and-

Clara caught his gaze and her thoughts stuttered to a halt. He was intently studying her, and she was terribly close to those bright blue eyes. His cheek was rough with stubble under her fingers. He didn't move, didn't speak. He didn't even appear to be breathing.

 _What am I doing?_ She quickly dropped her hand, and sat back, her face hot.

"You should...that needs to be cleaned." She mumbled, fixing her eyes on the wall behind his head. In the silence she had to fight the urge to look at him again.

"Alright, doc." John finally said.

Her resolve wavered and she gave up and glanced at him, unable to decipher his tone. He was smiling again, but not in a mocking way. It felt gentle, almost intimate.

Clara stood up abruptly, brushing past him in an attempt to escape the longing crushing her lungs. "I need to...to...clean up."

John stood up, but made no move to stop her. She hesitated briefly, then fled down the stairs.

/ /

Harold was standing in the hallway, looking in the direction of Clara's room. John made his way to his side.

"So what's the problem?"

Harold nearly leaped out of skin, making John smirk. The shorter man gave him a glare.

"I do wish you'd stop doing that." Harold grumbled, limping back into his office.

John followed, watching Harold take his customary seat at the computer. John scanned the room for any clue as to what had happened, but found none.

"Shut the door, please." Harold said wearily.

John complied, his eyes narrowed on Harold, waiting.

"I just spoke with Detective Fusco." Harold looked up at him. "George Haywood is dead."

John stared at him, his face betraying no emotion. _Dead?_

"The local authorities had just discovered his body in his home when the Detective arrived. Time of death was roughly 11:30 this morning." Harold leaned forward on his desk. "He died from multiple stab wounds made with a butcher knife from his own kitchen."

John raised an eyebrow. "Murdered?"

"It appears so." Harold said gravely. "Yet there was no sign of forced entry and nothing was stolen."

John sat in the chair across from Harold. "Murdered by someone he knew?"

"That is a possibility."

John studied the bookshelf behind Harold, his mind spinning furiously. "So why did the Machine give us Clara's number and not her father's?" He said finally.

"Apparently George Haywood's murder was not premeditated, nor was the homeless woman's." Harold looked at his computer screen, brow furrowed. "The Machine is never wrong, Mr. Reese. Clara's life is still in danger, and whoever is hunting her seems to be willing to kill at random. Detective Fusco will remain in Ohio for a few more days to see what he can turn up."

John frowned, but didn't respond. Clara's previous words echoed ominously. _Because you'll die._ The memory of her face hovering above him flashed through his mind. She had looked so concerned, her fingers so gentle as she examined the gash on his face.

 _What is it about you, John, that makes you want to save everybody else's life but your own?_

The familiar pain caught him in the chest, catching his breath.

"So." Harold straightened. "Care to explain how Miss Shaw ended up tranquilized?"

John snapped back to the present. "We followed a lead to the docks. Found some guys camped out in one of the old warehouses. Hired thugs. Funny thing is, they had more tranq guns than actual guns. They weren't very talkative, but I did get confirmation that they were hired to find this girl."

John pulled the crumpled paper from his pocket and handed it to Harold. It was an illustration. It did resemble Clara, but it wasn't an exact likeness. He watched Harold's sharp eyes study it closely.

"They were hired over email." John continued. "Never saw or spoke to the guy in person. They were supposed to take her alive and then signal their contact to get further instructions."

"What was the signal?" Harold looked up from the paper.

"Don't know." John admitted. "The guy who knew wasn't exactly able to talk."

Harold looked alarmed.

"He's alive." John reassured him, then paused. "At least, he _was_. Three doses of tranquilizer _shouldn't_ kill him."

"Mr. Reese-" Harold began sternly.

"Hey, I had two options. Save that asshole or Shaw. And I was pretty sure you'd prefer Shaw." John leaned back, crossing his arms defensively.

Harold removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. In the silence, the ticking of the large grandfather clock seemed almost deafening.

"Alright, Mr. Reese." Harold said finally. "Let's try a new tactic."

John waited, drumming his fingers lightly on his knee.

"There may be only one person who knows this killer's name." Harold leaned forward, ignoring the dark look crossing John's face. "We need Clara's help."


End file.
